


How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

by winplaceshow (iamacamera)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Peter Needs a Hug, Ph.D. Student Petey, Slow Build, Wade Has Issues, merc wade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamacamera/pseuds/winplaceshow
Summary: The way to a Spider-Man's heart is through his stomach.  That and a razor sharp marriage of wit and pop-culture trivia.  And it probably doesn't hurt to have a killer pair of knockers.  But, Wade is going to work with what he's got.





	1. I Love New York, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the following prompt:
> 
> "Peter is always hungry. Always. A miserable combination of super metabolism and the meager income of a poor college student make it so he always dreams of food, thinks of food, and gets mad when sees food being wasted. His sass and mood swings also stem from not being fed enough. Wade manages to figure this out and conquers Peter’s heart with lots of food."
> 
> Thanks to my awesome beta-readers [lairn](https://lairn.tumblr.com/) and [fossilofourstar](https://twitter.com/fossilofourstar).

**「The Strand Bookstore, Union Square」**

In the children’s section of the Strand Bookstore, famous for its 18 miles of classy reading materials, and men’s rooms urinals that are marginally less likely to be stained dubiously than those at a Midwestern Taco Bell, Wade grooves shamelessly to the funky hip-hop stylings of his most favorite 90’s mixtape. Righteous is his booty shaking. This is a happy place where picture books piled on tiny pink tables promise everyone that they are a special snowflake. The beat leaks out from the headphones fitted over his mask: _’Homegirls, for once forget you have class. See a guy you like? Grab him in the biscuits.’_

It feels good to be back in New York.

If you want to feel small, and adrift, and fantastically unimportant, New York is your place. Whenever Wade forgets what wanderlust feels like, he returns here. The city with so much vice it robs you twice! He loves it. It’s one of the only places in the United States where someone can be completely alone, not because there’s nobody else around, but because in New York there are so many people crammed into so little space that the only way to maintain any semblance of privacy is for everyone collectively to agree that nobody else exists.

For example, consider the following. He’s packing three handguns, named Kate, Farrah, and Jaclyn, two nano-ceramic fiber composite blades, a nameless assault rifle, two combat utility knives, and a half dozen grenades dangling off his harness like lethal Christmas tree ornaments; each of which is scribbled across in white sharpie with Hallmark-sweet, romantic messages such as, ‘With love’ and ‘Eat me.’ All this wrapped in a sexy red suit, yet he’s functionally invisible. He minds his own business. The people around him mind theirs. The sense of nihilistic alienation is intense. He can taste it.

That’s good because this evening he, W. Winston Wilson, soldier of fortune, has himself a big, important meeting with J. Jonah Jameson Jr., media mogul slash unironic Hitler mustache enthusiast. Their meeting requires that sort of collective ignorance. If all goes well Papa’s gonna make some cheddar tonight. Oh, baby!

‘What kind of name is John Jonah Jameson Jr., anyway,’ Wade wonders. He guesses it’s just about as stupid a name as Wade Winston Wilson. Their parents must really have liked alliteration, if parents are even anything more than a stabilizing fabrication in a dog-fuck, insideout world where everything is fiction. 

Whatever.

This shit-gibbon better not be late. If he is, Wade’s going to give these jaded New Yorkers an eyeful.

It occurs to Wade that he should tidy his office. There are books scattered everywhere. He can’t have that! He has a professional reputation to uphold. He begins to order the books alphabetically, by last name, because he’s not a moron, and he knows books have feelings and are finicky about how they like to be handled.

Children’s books are some of his favorites. They’re wonderful. A good book is one that, each time you pick it up, you find something new. By that measure there are no good books for children that don’t also speak to adults. Wade believes this wholeheartedly. Maurice Sendak, Roald Dahl, Eric Carle: these names are all just as important as John Steinbeck, James Joyce, or Mark Twain.

Besides, people have no respect for retail workers, the poor schmucks. 

There’s only one book left to shelve. Soft gasp of disbelief. What is this? It’s a big person book in the little person book section. How’d that happen?

‘Are you lost, little book friend,’ he wonders. ‘Do not fear. A hero is here to help. I’ll get you home.’

Behind him a giant plushie giraffe whispers, ‘You idiot. You’re not a hero.’

Wade hates seeing plushies in stores. They’re always looking at him with their sad, plastic eyes and calling out to him in voices nobody else can hear, saying disturbing things like, ‘Help me, Wade. Steal me. I’m so lonely. Just like you. Five finger discount, Wade. Take me. Let’s get our jimmies wet at a strip club, Wade. Let’s kill a man with our bare hands and feel alive, Wade.’ But, he only feels less alone for like thirty seconds after he shoplifts them. So, they can all go eat a dick.

Wade turns the giraffe around to face the corner so it will stop watching him. It's quite an undertaking. The giraffe is almost as tall as he is, and very heavy.

“That's right. Suck a fat one, you big, stupid ungulate,” he tells it when he's done, just to make sure it knows who's boss. "Nobody loves you."

It doesn't say anything.

Hah! That really showed him!

He turns his attention back to the book. ‘Self-Help’ the tag tells him. This is a book about life!

Wade doesn’t think life is that important. It’s just not. Life is OK. He likes life. He doesn’t need it. He’d be fine without it. He likes life exactly enough that he has not killed himself. By a razor-thin margin.

Here’s the truth. Running away will not solve your problems. Wade’s life is a testament to that.

But, killing yourself, theoretically, solves all problems. Don’t want to go to school? Show up to that wedding? Renew your license at the DMV? You don’t have to! Eat the business end of a shotgun, aim for the brainstem, and boom! Leave your liquefied white matter tracts and shards of skull as a paste on the ceiling for your heart-broken relatives to clean up.

Wade would kill himself just to win an argument, if he could. But, he can’t.

Maybe the book has advice on that.

 _How to Make Friends and Influence People_ the cover advertises. 

Strange… His friend Nate gave him a copy of this once. Granted, he winged it into the roaring fireplace the second that Dolph Lundgren lookin’ motherfucker left the room. But, still, it piques his curiosity. These sorts of coincidences are hardly ever entirely accidental. They’re fate. They scream of second chances.

Hiding behind a copy of _Green Eggs and Ham_ , he sits in a tiny chair and opens it to the first chapter.

‘What this book will do for you,’ it says. That sounds promising. He continues reading. ‘1. Get you out of a mental rut, give you new thoughts, new visions, new ambitions. 2. Enable you to make friends quickly and easily. 3. Increase your popularity.’

Impossible!

“ _That_ is some _bullshit_ ,” he informs the book, a bit too loudly, and way more angrily than he intended.

A gay couple poking around the history section gives him a wary glance. They’re cute. They seem to have mistakenly gotten the same haircuts which makes them look like two matching, disapproving owls. Wade hides back behind _Green Eggs and Ham_. He really hates seeing happy couples, gay ones especially.

He doesn’t hate gay people. He hates homophobes as much as he hates racists, or cows. He really hates cows. They’re spooky. It’s just that everytime he sees a cute gay couple, or hears someone say, ‘my boyfriend’ he thinks with soul-festering envy, ‘I want a boyfriend!’ 

Don’t get him wrong. He likes women. He just also likes men. With men, or any other fellow individual of the queer persuasion, there’s this particular feeling of support in the midst of a world that doesn’t understand. Wade likes that. 

What he really wants is a boyfriend who is shorter than him, so they can wear his hoodies, and look adorable. Maybe said little boyfriend would feel safe wearing his hoodies. Maybe he could do that for someone. Maybe he, Wade W. Wilson, grade-A scumbag, could make someone feel safe.

It wouldn’t even have to last forever. Love plus time minus distance equals hate. Wade knows this. Love is a little thing you catch if you’re very lucky. Then it rots and dies. That’s fine. He still wants it.

Someone touches his shoulder.

He doesn’t spook because he’s not a weenie! But, he does toss off his headphones in a fit, and briefly, albeit reflexively, mentally review the surrounding exits in case he’s about to have to install some moonroofs in some skulls. He’s not careful. He’s paranoid.

“You’re Deadpool,” the man tells him, a bit too emphatically, but calmly, which is good. 

Of course, he doesn’t need to be told he’s Deadpool. He knows that… usually.

Wade sizes the man up. Dumb square haircut? Check. Unironic Hitler mustache? Check. Livid look of a blustery hardass who’s used to getting his what he wants, when he wants, how he wants, yet is nonetheless one violent shit fit away from a stroke? Check.

Wade guesses he was loosely associated with the military at some point. But he doesn’t register as a threat. He’s soft in all the ways that count. This satisfies Wade. A soft client means an easy job.

“And _you_ are J. Jonah Jameson... Jr.,” Wade replies cheerfully, always cheerfully. He’s not sure why. Mentally he finishes, ‘You have no idea how close you just came to being a red-brown stain across the plushie ass of that jackass giraffe.’ “Step into my office.”

Jameson sits across from him on a chair that is far too small. He shifts uncomfortably. They stare at one another over the tiny, pink table. The job is this. Jameson wants to quote ‘make bleep well sure Spider-Man never shows his bleep, bleepity, bleep face in New York bleeping City again.’ He was very vehement on the phone. Now, he seems pretty freaked out.

He’s probably baby Jonah’s first mercenary. These _virgin_ encounters are always as awkward as a sober OkCupid date. Wade doesn’t care. It amuses him. For the right price, and the price _is_ right, he will happily pop this cherry.

“You have a Spider-Man doohickey on your sword,” Jameson breaks the ice by saying. His revulsion is undisguised.

“Oh, _yeah_ , I do!” Wade replies, as though he forgot. “It’s my _lucky_ charm. I’m a fan. Why else would I consider the job?” Jameson doesn’t seem to understand. Of course he doesn’t. Before they go any further, Wade changes the subject to his favorite topic: cash. “Got my advance?”

“Who asks for an advance in a briefcase?” Jameson bitches. He slides it across the table. But not before casting a fearful look behind him at his fellow book-browsing New Yorkers, none of whom care. Adorable. “We aren’t in a movie.”

The guy’s right. They aren’t in a movie. They’re in a fanfic, a transformative work, Wade’s favorite kind. It isn’t often that he gets to have at least a fifty percent chance of a happy ending, or flame aggressively queer without his sexuality being hedged as a joke to protect the fragile masculinities of what are, quite frankly, his lamest readers.

“People who don’t hate fun,” he quips and pops open the case. The cash sure smells real, even if this is all an escapist daydream penned obsessively by some poor, pathetic son-of-a-bitch who uses fictional characters to hide from the vulnerability of a real relationship, and shelter themselves against the fear -- no _knowledge_ \-- that they will someday die alone. “Smells like one third of a bad idea. Yummy.”

The look on this Jameson guy’s face is constantly like someone cut a fart and walked out of the room. “And what’s a bad idea smell like?”

“Depends on the person. Mine smell like fat stacks of cash, industrial strength cleaning products, and the heady rush of inhaled nitroglycerin -- sheer heavenly bliss, by the way." As Wade talks, he thinks. First of all he cannot believe he conned this guy into paying a cash advance for such an easy job. More importantly, Wade isn’t sure if he wants to do the job. He _likes_ Webs. He doesn’t want to see anything bad happen to him. Well, nothing catastrophic, a little bad press never killed anyone. "If I had to guess, I'd say your bad ideas smell like Huberd's Neatfoot leather dressing, Hoppe's 9, and cheap cologne covering the stench of-- uh... week old cilantro. In other words: six feet two inches of pure, butch charm. That sound about accurate?”

“You’re not exactly subtle, are you?” Jameson is not afraid of his bullshit. Wade respects that. It’s not exactly the most intelligent position to take if you like breathing. But, he respects it. “I’m married.”

“Your _wife_ know about our secret rendezvous?” Wade wonders aloud.

Jameson really spooks at that thought. He turns a weird shade of purple and reaches across the tiny, pink table as though to take back the briefcase. “You know what? You’re right! This is a bad--”

Wade clings to the case. This cash is like all other cash in that he will only give it up if it is pried from his cold, dead hands. He decides that he might decide to take the contract, have some fun stumbling vaguely in the direction of doing the job, then figure out if he wants the rest of the bounty later. 

“Ah, ah, ah! Hold up, Paul von Hindenburg,” Wade interrupts, hugging the precious briefcase to his chest. “Lemme get this straight. No maiming, stabbing, torture, or general unaliving? Just the dirty on our boy Spidey.”

Spidey.

That one little word launches Jameson into a full blown rant. He sits back down, and before his ass cheeks even have the chance to pancake back out on the seat he’s raving, “No stabbing. Are you dense? He can’t die a martyr’s death. Do you have any idea how many dumbass, copycat kids would take to the streets and get themselves killed if he went out like that? I don’t just need dirt! I need something to ruin him.”

Wade milks the unaliving line, just to make sure. If unaliving is in the cards, the job is off the table. That he can do for Webs’ life. He can walk away from sweet, sweet bacon if Jameson is about to cash in his chips and go from amusing side character to full blown baddie. “I mean, I _could_ get stabby. It’s just extra. You know, for emotional damages. Therapy isn’t free.”

“No stabbing,” Jameson repeats. “I run a newspaper, not a gang, you creatin.” 

He doesn’t even crack a smile. What a grouch! 

“Just checking.” Wade has one last question. “What if there is no dirt? What if he’s just a 100% organic, free-range, grass-fed angel?”

Jameson looks like he’s about to mess his pants and have a heart attack. In what order Wade is unsure. He hopes he craps his pants before he dies because that being Jameson’s last act on earth strikes him as funny. 

“No one's a hero every day of the week,” Jameson blusters. People are starting to stare. “Even the real heroes can't keep it up all the time. Except my son. My son, the astronaut, is a real American hero. Not some vigilante freak flipping around flipping the law the bird.”

Jameson has some serious issues with heroes. Wade is pretty sure Jameson’s daddy was a war hero. He’s also pretty sure that Jameson’s daddy used to drink and hit his mama. He thinks he read that in a back issue once.

Wade wants to poke this booboo. “Okay, but what if--”

“There _will_ be dirt!” Jameson insists. He slams his fist on the table. His face is turning purple again. “But, if you can’t find dirt, then make dirt. What do you think I called _you_ for? A regenerating degenerate. That’s what people call you. Seven years I’ve been at this! Seven years! My staff is useless. The private investigators I’ve hired have come up with nothing. But, dirtballs? Dirtballs make dirt.”

“Dirtballs make dirt. Sound logic,” Wade agrees. He _is_ scum. Still, he resents that. He pictures kicking Jameson in the teeth and walking out with the box full of Benjamins, never to see him again.

“So, are you taking the job, or are you just going to walk away and rob me blind?” Jameson demands. 

This guy has balls. Wade flops listlessly back in his chair. The ceiling has stars on it. “I dunno yet. Do you have anything else to say for yourself before I decide?”

“I think if you did take it, you’d be doing the right thing,” Jameson rails passionately. “This is a commendable undertaking. A good deed. This city needs to be rid of the Spider-Menace. Once and for all.”

Wrong answer.

Wade hates it when people use his gullibility as a tool. 

His grip on reality is not that great. He is constantly questioning his own perceptions. If someone tells him something, it better damn well be true because when he's tired and dejected from a night of lies, or booze, or just plain nerves and insomnia, he's going to assume they must know better than he does.

Not today, though. Today he just thinks this guy is a douche. 

Of course, Jameson could be sincere as a schoolgirl on a Sunday. That doesn’t change anything. Ain’t nobody preach to Wade Wilson about right and wrong. That’s his personal hang-up, not to be trifled with. He can do without the Landau, Luckman, and Lake bullshit, thank you very much.

He reaches slowly for his lucky sword.

From the edge of his vision Wade can see that Jameson looks like he’s about to shit bricks to Mars at the prospect of being gutted alive with a blade that has a Spider-Man charm on it. But, he says the magic words. “Also, I’ll pay double for a picture of his face.”

“Double?” Wade is unconvinced. Still flopped indolently back in his seat, he continues reaching for his weapon. “Mm…”

Jameson has nothing more to say for himself. The cheap bastard must have a death wish. Wade’s fingers curl around the hilt. He pulls her out nice and slow, lazy like, to give Jameson a chance to think and also because, honestly? The sound of steel sliding against steel makes his nipples hard like diamonds under his sexy, red spandex.

“Triple!” Jameson grunts finally, like it pains his cheapskate soul.

Kaching! Wade drops the blade back into its sheath. The superhero bro code stipulates that superhero bros do not reveal their super bro’s secret identities. But, Wade’s bank account is a gaping, greedy hole that begs to be jackhammered with that kind of green. 

“Done!” Wade decides without thinking, because he’s a cheap whore. “I’ll do it.”

He’s on his feet right away because he wants to get started right away. He takes the self-help book with him. He’s not done being cross with it.

Jameson is confused. “That’s it?”

“What? Did you think we were going to sign a contract that’s in no way legally binding, just put our crimes conveniently on paper in the unlikely event that I get caught? Didn’t think so.” Thus having secured the all important last word, Wade walks off. “Smell ya’ later, Ahab McFlatop. Don’t call me. I’ll call you. Oh, and you should really check out the Self-Help section. Awesome selection.”

‘You stupid slut,’ the giraffe whispers as he passes.

Wade ignores it. He walks away.

‘Steal me, you money-grubbing skank,’ the giraffe whispers when Wade reaches the door to the street. It’s mildly unsettling that he can still hear it speaking in the same hushed voice at the other side of the store. It’s the same low, trickling sensation of auditory volume. But, the distance makes it seem louder. ‘You can’t expect to meet the love of your life without a present.’

The giraffe is an asshole. But, he has a point. Wade does an about face.

When Wade returns to the children’s section, Jameson is still there. He’s staring vacantly down at the pink table with the wide-eyed look of someone who has just realized he has made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

“Don’t worry, big guy. It’s all gonna be _fine_ ,” Wade assures him, and claps him on the shoulder. This is probably a big lie. But it isn’t the biggest lie of his life. “I do good work.”

Jameson doesn’t say anything. He keeps staring hard into the void of the crayon marks on the tiny, pink table.

Dragging the giraffe behind him, Wade takes his book, and his money, and he leaves. He’s got a job to do.


	2. I Love New York, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Canon Facts About the Dietary Habits of Peter Parker:**  
>  *His favorite candy is cotton candy.  
> *He has a thing for Fruit Loops. They're often pictured in the backgrounds of his apartments, if you look closely. Also, he stole some from the Sanctum Sanctorum once when Dr. Strange wasn't home.  
> *Peter is often pictured eating street hot dogs. But, according to Aunt May, he is sometimes a vegetarian.

**「Tompkins Square Park, Alphabet City」**

Peter is hungry.

He sits in his windowsill and eats Fruit Loops dry out of the box with his bare hands because he doesn’t have money to buy more milk, and the Bugle doesn’t pay him until Saturday, which is two days away.

Not having food, frankly, freaks him out. So, he decides not to think about it, because that’s a healthy choice that he’s sure will work out fine in the end, and have absolutely no negative repercussions whatsoever. _That being said_ , this plan is awfully hard to implement functionally when there’s so much else on his mind.

For example, he’s on the phone with Mary Jane Watson, model, aspiring actress, Midtown High’s original party girl, and his ex-girlfriend. He was going to ask her to marry him. It didn’t work out. Things were said that he’s having an awfully hard time forgiving. 

The situation is, as the kids like to say, terribad.

“We’re at the World. It’s right around the corner from you. East 2nd Street, you know? You’ve got to come, Petey. It’s going to be great. Come dancing, Petey. Please,” she begs. “Everybody misses you.”

She sounds drunk.

“Hold on,” he tells her.

The landlord can’t seem to regulate the thermostat anywhere between ‘hot as an oven’ and ‘four layers of socks and leg-warmers.’ Even though it’s February and freezing, he throws open the window and climbs out onto the fire escape. He feels better outside. The sky is dark and starless.

“Is Harry there with you?” he asks.

“Yes,” she enthuses. “Listen, Petey, Licia’s here, too. She wants--”

This is approximately when Peter stops listening.

His other ex-girlfriend, Felicia Hardy, world-class daddy’s girl, recovering cat burglar, and New York’s flakiest bad luck charm, is the last person he wants to see. 

His love life is a series of trainwrecks caused by the unhealthy closeness of his incestuous friend circle. Heartbreak and infidelity are endemic to caped crusaders. You could call it an occupational hazard, or you could call it Parker luck. But his most recent romantic failure takes the cake. 

His two girlfriends, MJ and Felicia? They left him for each other. 

He might have deserved it. He isn’t sure. That might be his guilt complex talking, if he had a guilt complex, which he doesn’t. (Don’t be ridiculous.)

“Put Harry on the phone,” he interrupts. “And take it off speaker.”

“You’re not on speaker,” MJ says. 

Lies and confabulations! He can hear the bass throbbing in the background just as clearly as he can hear the phone jostling as it's handed off to his jetset, shamefaced trustfund baby, former cokehead of a best friend.

“This is Mr. Osborne speaking. Foxiest dude in the five boroughs,” Harry greets him. “How may I help you this fine February evening?” 

“Please do me a solid and,” Peter crams Fruit Loops in his mouth like they’re powdered with crack-cocaine, “tell them I’m staying home tonight.”

“Man, you’ve got to let it go,” Harry advises, even though exactly no one asked him. “Whatever MJ said to you -- which, by the way, you haven’t even told me, your best bro -- I’m sure she didn’t mean it. It’s been, like, six months. That’s the statute of limitations for stony silences after messy break-ups.”

“Mm-hm,” Peter hums. It’s been three months. But, okay. 

Felicia is bad for MJ. That’s the real problem. They don’t belong together. Felicia has a dark past. She was a felon. Her moral fiber is questionable. But, MJ? She’s normal. She’s got a career. She’s got goals. She’s stable.

Two people like that shouldn’t get involved. It’s a recipe for disaster. Admittedly, thinking this after having himself dated Felicia while _also_ dating MJ does nothing except protect his bruised ego, and _that_ makes _him_ a sanctimonious, butthurt hypocrite. 

But, he only has two options. It’s either be a sanctimonious, butthurt hypocrite, or be a mopy, furious weenie. He’d rather be a sanctimonious, butthurt hypocrite. All he has to do is double down on his immaturity and pretend there’s dignity in his hypocrisy. (Ha.)

After all, _admitting_ his hypocrisy would be tantamount to admitting that he is unfortunately, irrevocably, irresponsibly stubborn in many other very important ways, ways that would be very difficult to overlook once uncovered, ways that would make him have to seriously re-assess his own culpability in the flaws of his interpersonal relationships, both professional and private. 

He’d rather not. 

Harry, who likewise has the emotional intelligence of a drunk toddler, apparently thinks this as a good moment to inform him in an excited whisper, “Besides, they look _so_ hot together! Man, it’s-- Oh, man. They’re making out. Woah.”

There isn’t enough sugary cereal in the world for this conversation. Peter groans, “Not cool, Harry!”

“Right. Sorry,” Harry tells him. He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds distracted by whatever steamy, American, home-grown, cherry pie, girl-on-girl kisses are happening four blocks away on the other end of this very telephone call. “Bro, you sound like a termite. What the hell are you eating?”

“Nuffin’,” Peter lies, shoveling cereal in his face to clog the hole deep down in his cuckolded heart. 

“Anyway, since you’re over it, you should come out. Otherwise, I’m gonna haveta assume that you’re just blowin’ up shit ‘cause you’re mad you’re not in the middle of this bad kitty, good kitty sandwich anymore... which is, frankly, understandable. These 22-year-old bombs are _dy-na-mite_.” Harry is, hands down, the worst. “You just need to score, and sulking at home ain’t gonna get your wack ass laid. Trust me, down here, each one of these soft targets has a bikini wax.”

‘Sick,’ Peter thinks, but not in a good way.

“Who parties on a Thursday night?” Peter asks with his mouth full. His fingers scrape the bottom of the Fruit Loops box. It’s a tragedy. “Who does that?”

“This is New York,” Harry argues. “Thursday is the new Friday. You know that.”

“Not for me.” Peter peeks into the box. It smells like Pez and it is empty. “I’m going to read a textbook called _Equilibria and Kinetics of Biological Macromolecules_. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“You are the most ass stubborn individual I have ever met,” Harry complains, which while it may be true, is rich coming from him. “If this is about money, you know I can spot you--”

Nope! That is where Peter Benjamin Parker draws the line.

“Okay! Gotta go!” Peter interrupts. “Have’a-nice-night! Bye!”

He hangs up. His fingers are coated in sticky, colorful powder. He wipes his hands on his pants because he lives like a troglodyte who has never heard of napkins.

His love life bites, and he doesn't have two pennies to rub together. But, the moon is big and the view of the park is nice even when the trees are bare. From above, he likes the way the wrought iron fences curve around the grey stone walkways.

There are some shady characters skulking around, as usual. There are _always_ dudes shooting up in Thompson Square. Peter swears, he can’t walk down West 7th Street between A and B without crunching underfoot empty nickel bags and used hypodermic needles every tenth step.

That’s an exaggeration. He has only ever seen one hypodermic needle in the park. The point is, it offended his sensibilities. He can’t have that. Kids play in that park, and it’s just outside his window. It’s his backyard. It needs to be cleaned up.

...Just like his dinky apartment. 

He can’t even afford a dresser for his clothes. When you’re broke, everything is low to the ground. He rolls off the mat he sleeps on in the morning, and grabs his pants from the floor. At night, he cooks noodles on a hot plate. If one falls out of his mouth while he’s studying he thinks, ‘It’s not too far.’ Then he picks it up and eats it. It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s looking.

The only way he could get lower is if he died.

It was a bad idea to spend half his teaching assistant stipend on web fluid thinking he could make it up at the Bugle. It was an even worse idea to get an apartment with Mary Jane. He could hardly afford splitting the rent when they were living together. Attempting to take that entire burden on himself after she moved out has been financial suicide. 

He pokes his head inside and surveys his humble hovel. The sink, stacked high with grubby cereal bowls, looks like more of a science experiment than the piece of plywood raised on cinder blocks where he keeps his chemistry set. Textbooks are stacked everywhere in haphazard piles. Except by sniff test, there is no way of telling the dirty clothes from the clean, and his mattress is more of a nest than a bed.

Uncle Ben is rolling in his grave. 

He glances back out at the park. Down on the corner, two men make an exchange.

Peter trips over himself dropping his pants and shedding his shirt while ducking back inside to grab his webshooters. He pulls on his mask and his gloves. His homework can wait until tomorrow, just like his dishes. With a running start over the dirty underpants and socks carpeting the floor (because that’s a normal, adult choice), he takes a flying leap out the window. 

The hot second the moment of weightlessness before he begins to fall gets old he will hang up his spiffy underoos puts himself out to pasture. Don’t get him wrong! It isn’t because being Spider-Man is more fun than cleaning his apartment! He has a responsibility. Nobody is going to die if his apartment is dirty.

(...apart from Aunt May of shame if she comes by for a surprise visit.)

Lightly he lands on the wrought iron fence edging the southeast corner of East 7th and Avenue B. Crouching, he devises a plan of attack. Contrary to popular belief, drug dealers aren’t stupid. Peter has spent a lot of time observing them. Five or six of them usually work together at any given point of distribution.

One will stand lookout for police. One will stand on the corner, advertizing, chattering at people as they pass. These men collect cash on the deals, and send the customer onto another who doles out the little baggies or vials. The bulk of the product itself is usually hidden somewhere in the park, so no one person is caught with a large amount of drugs. The boys who guard this area are usually the youngest. Peter does his best to be gentle with them.

The trick is catching them all before they scatter. But, if he’s swift and silent, as he usually is, he’ll be able to take them all out in a few short minutes. He’ll hide in the trees and push them toward East 6th where the exits are cut off by the basketball courts then--

“Are you the real Spider-Man?” a passerby interrupts. 

He looks doubtful (rude), and he’s wearing a Yankee’s cap. Never trust a man in a Yankee’s cap. By his side is a girl in a faux-fur coat and what have got to be four inch heels. They look like murder. She’s sucking on a lollipop. Together in the circle of light cast by a streetlamp they look like two actors in a gritty play.

“No,” Peter deadpans. “I’m just some poor, down-on-his-luck schmuck in a ratty costume.”

“Yeah, it _does_ look pretty ratty,” the guy sadly agrees.

“Bet he has B.O.,” the girl whispers, loudly enough for Peter to hear.

So his uniform needs to be laundered! What exactly does everybody want from him today? He’s a 23 year old Ph.D. student with too many commitments. He’s broke, he’s tired, and he’s hungry. More importantly, he’s doing his best! 

He scurries up the nearest tree to avoid the rest of this conversation.

“Woah!” the unfortunate Yankee’s fan exalts. “That was Spider-Man! He’s way smaller in person.”

Perched high in the tree, Peter takes exception to that. How _dare_ he? He’s not _small_!

“He looked like he was smelly,” the girl repeats, unimpressed.

Shots fired.

“I can still hear you,” Peter lets her know, crawling along a branch above into the yellow light cast by the streetlamp. “I’m right here.”

“Hey. Are you _really_ down on your luck?” the guy wants to know. With one hand he’s filming him with his phone. With the other holds up a bag containing a styrofoam box of what New Yorkers affectionately term ‘street meat’. Peter knows this because he can smell it from forty feet in the air. “You want some food? We have some extra kebabs.”

Is it that obvious that he’s hungry? Peter drops down headfirst on a thread of silk to have a closer look. Scraps or not, a hot meal does sound good. Granted, he hasn’t eaten anything with a nervous system in more than a year. More importantly, he’s not some panhandler on the subway. But, it _is_ tempting.

“No, thanks. Sorry,” he apologizes when he’s halfway to the ground. Why he’s apologizing is beyond him. It pains him to turn it down. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“No wonder he’s so skinny,” the girl says with a patronizing tone that Peter finds it very difficult not to consider offensive. She must think he’s deaf. He, however, forgives her quickly and unreservedly because she rifles around inside her jacket, and produces a colorful bouquet of lollipops. “How ‘bout these?” 

There’s something about his metabolism that makes him crave simple carbohydrates. Sugars of any sort are irresistible. It’s only thanks to the wonders of a strict dental hygiene regimen that he doesn’t have a mouth full of cavities. The treats call his name.

He drops lower on his silk line warily because, again, it bears repeating, you never can trust a dude in a Yankee’s cap. “My Auntie always told me not to take candy from strangers but… Okay!” He snatches them from her, then scrambles back up the silk line into the tree. “Thanks, concerned citizens!”

“Did you see that? He took them right with his sticky little hands!” the girl exclaims, like he’s a goat in a petting zoo or something. She’s really loud, which lands her directly back on Peter’s shit list. She’s gonna blow up his spot if she keeps shouting like that. “That was so cool! Did you get a picture?”

“Sh! Have some discretion, lady!” he hisses down at her. “I’m doing important work here. Go tell someone else they smell. Shoo.”

The girl and her companion look at one another. They shrug. As they walk away the girl says, “Kind of an asshole, though, isn’t he?”

Peter wants to scream.

He doesn’t scream, because that would be weird. Instead, he creeps along the trees deeper into the park, and counts the dealers all working together. One, two, three, four, five, six dirty, antisocial little ferrets. They’ll make a mistake. Two or three of them will clump together. He’ll wait.

Crouching with his heels almost touching and his knees up by his shoulders, he unwraps his first lollipop. 

He wishes he could sit like this always. It feels more natural for him to sit this way, to move like this. Sometimes, when he’s riding the bus, or taking notes in class, or sitting in Mr. Jameson’s office he has to tell himself, ‘Don’t be a weird, little spider. Don’t be a weird, little spider. Don’t be a weird, little spider.’

His life is suffering, truly.

He tucks the rest of the lollipops in the waistband of his pants, and checks on the dealers again. Down on the pavement, they’re all together huddled like penguins in the cold, smoking cigarettes. Peter can’t believe it. Unreal! How dumb can you get? He sneaks silently onto the streetlamp above them. They don’t see him. It’s like they want to make it easy for him.

Peter drops down into the center of their circle. 

“Heya,” Peter says around his lollipop. He bounces on his toes. “You guys know any good jokes?”

They all freeze. A single disbelieving “What the fuck?” is the only response he gets.

“Okay. I’ll start. What sound do porcupines make when they kiss?” Peter asks, and strikes the lead guy’s nose with the heel of his hand, just a little love tap. He deserves it.

The big, bad dealer staggers back groaning, “Ow. Shit!”

“Aw, man,” Peter complains. “You’ve heard that one already? I hate when that happens!”

The rest of the gang scatters. He aims for their ankles. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, not that he would ever shoot a fish, in a barrel or otherwise. 

“Too slow,” Peter sing-songs, as he pulls them together into one bundle. He binds their arms. It’s a whole bouquet of buttholes! He counts them. “One, two, three, four, five… six? Darn. Lucky contestant number six got away.”

Up they go. Up, up and over the nearest streetlight. This garbage will be collected by the cops. Easy.

Now comes the the satisfying part.

Peter cannot afford a therapist. That’s not okay. Not only is his life stressful and surreal, he lives in Manhattan now. Everyone in Manhattan has a therapist. But, if he’s anything, he’s resourceful. Recently, he’s been using the baddies he bags instead. So far, it’s working out pretty well for him. Tonight he really needs it.

He lies down on the cold pavement below his bundle of baddies and starts talking. Their faces look weird peering down at him, swaying slightly, a many-headed pod of not-nice dudes. “I’ve been thinking lately. There are several stages to being a New Yorker. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

This really confuses the baddies. One of them speaks for the group, “Uh… What?”

“Just listen for a second. I’ve really been obsessively refining my theory on this one.” Peter gives himself a moment to collect his thoughts, and open another lollipop. He pops it in his mouth. Then, hands folded on his belly, he says, “The first, and most famous stage, is starry-eyed wonder. Right? This is the stage that folks from fly-over country know best. They save their _whole lives_ to take their 14 yearly days vacation here and it’s the only one most people ever experience.”

There are times Peter scales skyscrapers, the Chrysler Building or Empire State, just because he can, because he becomes part of something bigger than himself. Alone at the summit, looking over the sea of lights, each one a life, his heart comes unfastened and open. To feel that rush is to know that this is a place that vibrates with possibilities. New York is a beautiful city, blessed with the grace and the intensity of new love. 

Or maybe he’s just a hopeless, romantic nerd. 

“Bruh,” one of the bad dudes above him interrupts. “You are seriously way too into that lollipop. If you were a girl sucking on that thing, hell, I’d--”

“Silence, loser,” Peter commands around said lollipop. With a flick of his wrist he gags the mouthy one and each of his potentially mouthy friends.

“Mm!” they panic and wriggle.

Peter isn’t done talking. “People who have lived in New York a little while hate tourists because they think this is their city, and the tourists just don’t belong. Tourists clog the sidewalks. ‘How would you feel,’ New Yorkers think, ‘if I went out to Minnesota and parked my car in the middle of the freeway reading my map while _you_ were trying to get to work?’ This is the second stage.”

Thinking about this weary, jaded apathy Peter feels uneasy. The images that come to mind are failed carjackings, beautiful blonde girls falling from great heights, and lonely aging relatives. Guilt pangs deep. He keeps talking. That’s what he does when he feels _anything_ : talk, talk, talk.

“The penultimate stage of being a New Yorker is wanting desperately to be like the annoying tourists because tourists can leave. Here roaches climb the walls in every $4200 a month apartment. The streets are an olfactory experience: a different terrible odor for each consistently inconsistent season. And the Metro Transit Authority conspires daily to make everyone late.”

Peter crunches down on his lollipop. It cracks between his teeth. He’s not bitter.

“But this is the terrifying part. In New York, because of the cost and because of how just plain _hard_ things are, every life goal is shifted back 10 years. Your 20’s are your teens, and your 30’s are your 20’s. It’s an island of Peter Pans. A whole island of ‘em. Which is fine if you don’t think outside of that. But, it’s easy to feel like a grade-A loser when you start comparing yourself to your cousins in Boston, who _all_ seem to have it _all_ figured out.”

There is so much in his life that he should have together by now. 

The idea that MJ might be right about him has recently been an endless worry.

“The final stage of being a New Yorker is knowing that, despite this complete and inescapable stunting of your personal growth, you can never, ever leave because New York is _part_ of you. For example, I’m working two jobs. And I’m going to school. And-- Nuts!” 

Behind him lucky contestant number six is sneaking up with a wrench raised. He was wondering if that dude was going to pop back up. Nice of him to try to help his buddies. Peter sits up, but doesn’t get off his ass.

“Careful with that thing!” he warns, and webs him directly in the face. 

The wrench drops to the pavement with a hollow metal clang. So satisfying. 

He webs his arms to his sides and his ankles together for good measure. The guy plops over and immediately begins trying to scrape his way across the park like a big, fat inchworm. 

A wrench? Seriously? What are they -- in a cartoon?

Whatever. Peter lays back down. “As I was saying. I’m also moonlighting nightly as a hero in a ridiculous costume which, by the way, I sew myself. Do you know how hard it is to work with spandex? Not the point. The point is I’m _starving_. I’m hangry literally all of the time thanks to New York’s absurd economy and my super-spider metabolism. I know that I moved out to Philadelphia, Boston maybe, I could buy a house before I hit 30. I could eat three square meals a day consisting of something other than Maruchan oriental flavor ramen noodles and $2 egg sandwiches from the Sunny and Annie's on Avenue B. But I can’t do that. I can’t leave. Because I love New York. I wouldn’t be myself anywhere else. Know what I mean?”

He’s falling apart, and he doesn’t have anyone to tell. He knows this about himself. But, what are the roots of this, the shame nugget of his secret disenchantment? 

Obviously, he has made some mistakes, some _epic_ oopsies. Even now, years and several tainted relationships later, he sometimes finds himself convinced he’ll never escape them. Such is the metamorphosing nature of horrifying guilt. 

“What I’m really saying is,” Peter concludes, foot near the guys’ faces, pointing with his toes, “that if you’re smart, you’ll leave this place, and you’ll never come back.”

One of them, at this point, looks like he wants to cry. His eyes roll. “Mm-mm.”

Peter decides he looks like he understands. This has been a productive session. He feels much better now. He reaches out with a gentle kick and jostles them so they spin slowly.

As if on cue, blue and white lights flash at the corner of the park. A police cruiser chirps.

Peter hops to his feet. “Oops, here comes your ride. Been nice chatting. Toodles.”

He takes off northwestward, _not_ back toward his apartment, but instead toward the sound of sirens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, I clearly have some feelings about Peter Parker vs. Adult Responsibility.
> 
> In any case, remember, every time you leave a comment or a kudos a fairy gets his wings and, by fairy, I mean me. I'll get my wings. You can hit me up on [tumblr](http://winplaceshow.tumblr.com/), too, if you're shy or whatever.
> 
> Hugs and kisses,  
> Gabriel


	3. I Love New York, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Deadpool is on the steps in Union Square, a place that he would probably gravitate toward because it's known for absurd, irreverent performance art. Here are two videos of people making asses of themselves in the area where he's sitting: [[1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AUncGsoag0)], [[2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yet2Q0M32GQ)].
> 
> Also, throughout this story there are going to be subtle references to the _epic_ Deadpool arc ‘The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.' If you haven’t read it, you should.

**「Union Square, Southern Stairs」**

The first thing Wade does after leaving the bookstore is visit the Best Buy around the corner. He purchases one of those nifty little spy cams that are disguised as dead, plastic plushie eyes. Then he goes next door to Duane Reade to pick up a sewing kit.

Having completed these errands like a good little mercenary, Wade camps out on the Union Square steps with all the other crazies shivering in the cold. Steam rises out of the golden aperture of the Metronome sculpture while Williamsburg-bound hipsters and Empire State University students whose mommies and daddies keep their bank accounts lush enter and exit Whole Foods in vegan, GMO-free, gluten-free, organic, craft-beer drinking droves. 

He was planning on installing the spy cam in the giraffe’s head. But the stupid thing won’t stop talking.

‘You should take the money and run. Blow it all in one night,’ it suggests. Or, at least he thinks it’s the giraffe talking. It’s really hard to distinguish its voice from his own thoughts. ‘He’ll never be your friend. Especially not if he finds out you took this contract. Let’s hit up a working girl. Three working girls! Or a rent _boy_. That’s the good stuff. Use ‘em and lose ‘em. You know where to get it. 43rd and 8th, remember?’

“Assflash newshole,” Wade mutters. He leans down close to the giraffe’s face on the pavement between his feet. “Hookers don’t really love you. It’s a business transaction.”

‘Who said anything about love?’ the giraffe responds.

“Chatty Giraffe,” Wade warns and draws his combat knife from its sheath in his boot. The blade is black. Its curve is mean. “I _will_ cut you.”

An art-fart lookin’ lady to his right is giving him a powerful side-eye over her copy of _How Should a Person Be?_. He decides he doesn’t like her very much. She has a bad taste in books. 

“I watched a dude pinch off a loaf in that trash can once,” he tells her, and points with his knife. Her visible disgust gives him a vindictive sort of satisfaction. “He was wearing a cape made of newspapers, and a crown from Burger King all done up with plastic _rhinestones_.”

“Oh,” the art-fart lady says with her fashionable jacket and her fashionable glasses. She puts her nose back in her book, as though to indicate that he should stop talking.

He doesn’t.

“See how the stairs make a shell shape, so all the fifty or so people sitting here are faced toward that one trash can? He just dropped his pants, no hesitation, no preamble whatsoever, and sat up there like it was a _throne_. Took his sweet time, too.” He cuts the giraffe open along the jaw in much the same way one would if they wanted to slice out an animal’s tongue. “Then, when he was done, he tore off a corner of his newspaper cape, wiped his ass with it, and exited stage left. Mic drop. Or, more accurately, deuce drop.”

“Lovely,” she drawls.

“That dude might’ve been me. I’m not sure,” Wade shares, tearing stuffing out of the giraffe’s head. He enjoys doing this to the giraffe because, again, the giraffe is an _asshole_ and he deserves it. “My memory’s not so hot. I’m exactly like a late Sugar Ray Robinson, except my neurological damage was caused by torture and experimentation, and I’ve never participated in, let alone won, a boxing match. I probably would if I tried. Though, if I’m being honest with myself, the savagery and unsophistication of MMA is more my speed.”

This gets her attention. “How could you _possibly_ not remember something like that?”

He _just_ told her: torture and experimentation. 

“Drugs.” It’s not entirely a lie. He doesn’t remember doing drugs the day of the Poop King incident. But, that’s the best explanation he’s got. With the tip of his knife he gouges the giraffe’s left eye out and repeats, “Mind _blitzing_ drugs.”

She puts her book down. Suddenly, they’re friends. “Yeah? You holding?”

“I don’t know.” He crams the camera housing into the giraffe’s skull, then threads the new camera eye into the empty socket. “Maybe. Check my pouches.” 

Behind her fashionable glasses she quarks a perfectly sculpted, fashionable eyebrow. “Seriously?” 

“My hands are busy,” he says, exchanging his knife for his new sewing kit. In the cold, even wearing ballistic tactical gloves, it’s hard to thread a needle. He would do this inside, but he doesn’t yet have a place to stay. That’s okay. He doesn’t need much sleep, and it’s not unusual for him to be homeless. Maybe he can crash with Al. “Go for it. Dive in.” 

She does. This chick is way sketchier than assumed upon initial assessment. He changes his mind about her. She’s not so bad. While he sews up the giraffe’s wounds, she unpacks his pouches one by one. 

After a while he asks, “What cha’ got?”

“Crayons, confetti, a clip -- fully loaded, another clip -- same deal, sheet of holographic unicorn stickers, a baggie of self-adhesive googly eyes, loose bullets, and a garrote,” she reports. “Damn. Are you here to straight up murder someone or to throw a party for kindergartners?”

Being that all six feet, two inches of him is a child the answer to that is and always will be: “A little of column A, and a little of column B.”

“You’re screwball,” she informs him.

“Never heard that before,” he replies. “Can you be quiet? I’m kind of busy here.”

Wade likes sewing, and crochet, and cross-stitch, and all manner of creative projects that are repetitive, and require an eye for detail. They help him clear his cluttered mind. Frankly, without the option to seek the aid of modern psycho-pharmaceuticals, this is an almost impossible task. 

“Yellow lace panties, a tiny bottle of lube, a tinier bottle of maple syrup labeled ‘in case of emergency’, and, like, six more clips. What the fuck, man?” the art-fart asks. She gingerly holds up the yellow panties for him, and everyone else in Union Square, to examine. “You’re into some weird shit.”

He doesn’t have to explain himself to anybody. “Put that stuff back, and keep looking.”

Just as he starts to grow bored of his ladder stitch, he finishes. He sits back to examine his work. It’s good. The stitches are small, even, and closely spaced. He pets the fake fur down. Webs’ll never notice.

“Score,” the art-fart at his side exalts. She has good timing. “What’s this? Crushed up molly? Tell me it is. That’s my favorite.”

He glances over at her. Who wants to do a drug that makes you love everybody? She’s holding up a dime bag of pale pink powder. It could be meth. It could be pop rocks for all he knows. It’s _probably_ pop rocks. “Oh, _yeah_! That’s the _good_ stuff.”

“Nice. You wanna dissolve it in water or bump it?” This girl is too sketchy for her own good.

“Ah-ah. Hold the phone, Ms. Ready-to-get-high-with-shady-stranger-whose-name-she-doesn’t-know.” He takes the bag from between her fingers. “You have to answer some questions for me first. How long have you lived here?”

“Four years. Midwest transplant,” she explains. “Harlem six months. Before that, ESU campus housing in the Village.”

“You ever seen Spider-Man? I’m here for work. But, I’m a big fan. I would just super hate it if I came all the way here, and didn’t see him. I mean I guess I could,” he leans close to aggressively break the bubble of her personal space, “take a _hostage_ and make demands.” She doesn’t even blink. No fear. No fun. He backs off. “Just kidding. You said you lived downtown, and now you live uptown. Do you see him more often uptown or downtown?”

“Downtown, definitely. There’s this dollar dosa cart on Washington Square, right outside the Empire State library. He’s seen there so often that among ESU students there’s a rumor that he’s one of them. I even have a friend who swears up and down that she saw him _inside_ the library once. I mean, nobody really believes her. But…” She laughs. “It isn’t exactly like his whereabouts are secret. People post their Spider-Man encounters on twitter in real time constantly, #spideysightings. Refresh the tag, you could follow him anywhere… if you were fast enough.”

That’s brilliant. He’s pissed he didn’t think of it himself. Stupid Deadpool. _Also_ , his twitter account may or may not have been suspended for sexually harassing Betty White. #goldengirlsforever “Prove it.”

“Sure.” She’s up for the challenge. She doesn’t have her phone in her hand for more than thirty seconds before she says. “He was just in Thompson Square. Check out this post. There’s a link to a video.”

Wade, in his excitement, snatches her phone. “Gimme.” 

“Hey!” she argues.

He puts his entire hand over her face. “Sh… Daddy’s busy.” 

The video plays. Webs is hiding in a tree. Adorable! It’s hard to see him, except for his big, expressive eyes glowing like a raccoon’s in the darkness. 

‘Hey. Are you _really_ down on your luck?’ the guy holding the camera asks. ‘You want some food? We have some extra kebabs.’

Webs crawls out along the tree branch into the light. Poor little guy. He looks hungry. On a line of silk he lowers himself toward the cameraman. Halfway down he stops.

‘No thanks. Sorry,’ Webs says in his cute Webs voice. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’

Of course he is! Of course he’s a vegetarian. Wade forgives him in light of his immense beauty.

The camera pans to a girl in killer pumps. She holds out of bouquet of lollipops. ‘No wonder he’s so skinny. How about these?’

Webs is, apparently, transfixed by the lollipops. His eyes go big. He’s quiet for a moment. Then he darts down and snatches them from the girl. The camera jostles.

‘My Aunty always told me not to take candy from strangers,’ Webs says. ‘But, okay!’

The video ends.

Wade refreshes the tag. Most recent post, thirty seconds ago, he’s moving up Broadway from Washington Square. Speak of the devil! Webs is headed right for him.

“Gotta run,” he tells his companion. He tosses her the dime bag of what is probably pop rocks, and her phone. “Good work, kid. That was some world class exposition. Have fun with this.”

Wade grabs his briefcase full of money, and his now silent giraffe, and he hauls ass down Broadway thinking, ‘Keep moving north, Webs. Keep moving north. Keep moving north.’ Broadway and East 13th. Broadway and East 12th. People part for him because he looks that driven. Broadway and East 11th. Still no sign of him.

Broadway and East 10th. Wade stops at the center of the crosswalk, looks up, and there he is.

He’s beautiful.

He always looks so happy when he’s flying through the air, weightless. Wade wishes he could be happy like that. He’s got a lollipop in his mouth, too. Wade doesn’t believe in a benevolent God. But if he did this small, spank-bank worthy miracle would be proof of his existence.

They make eye contact, delicious eye contact. Web’s eyes narrow. No ifs, ands, or buts, this is a look of pure hatred. It turns Wade on.

Haphazardly waving a stack of his briefcase cash, he wolf whistles, “Whoot-wheew! Lookin’ good, hot stuff! Come here often? How much for a _dance_? Show me what‘cha _got_.”

Webs swings so low he almost skids the asphalt in the striped crosswalk, and Wade is sure he’s about to be righteously close-lined across the street into traffic oncoming. He isn’t. 

Instead, Webs flips him the bird, right in his face. “Eat me, Wade.”

Feisty boy! Wade loves Webs, deep down in the cockles in his shriveled, little heart.

Beside him, a little girl points and shrills, “Mommy, Spider-Man just did a dirty thing with his hand!”

“I always knew he was a lowlife,” her mother mutters.

Hilarious.

What’s not so funny is the fact that Webs is swinging off down Broadway without so much as a backward glance. Wade isn’t done with him. Nobody puts baby in the corner.

He drops the giraffe, and pulls a pistol. Loudly, he thinks about making a bloody mess of someone closeby. He chooses the only asshole on the street who he thinks deserves it, and pulls the trigger. People scream and scatter. Bang, motherfucker! Who’s next? He aims into the crowd.

Webs turns on a dime. Good. Precog is so cool. All spiders have ESP, right? That’s why they control the _government_. Wade holsters his pistol, and pulls a sword. His foot fucking hurts, and he''s going to need to buy a new pair of boots. Even so, this was a great idea.

Wade would congratulate himself further but this is the exact moment at which Webs, clinging to his line of silk, circles around and delivers a vicious flying kick that flings him into the air like a ragdoll. 

Wade knows there isn't any music playing. But, he can hear it, the song they blast at hockey games when a player scores: Glitter Gary, Rock and Roll Part II. His head crashes into the rococo facade of the building opposite. Goal! He lands ass-up on the curb in the garbage where he belongs. He looks like a tool losing his sword. He hangs onto his money, though. That’s the important part. 

The world swims. It hurts to breathe. A couple broken ribs, and he’s pretty sure he has a concussion. Webs kicks like a mule. Still, he probably pulled said kick. The dude can bench press a _car_ which, in all honesty, is rad as hell.

Wade staggers to his feet. The music doesn’t stop. He shouts so he can hear himself. “Gonna be honest, my _deodorant_ just vaporized with you coming up on me all _hot_ and _heavy_.”

Webs lands on the street lamp above him with a satisfying, ‘tink!’ _Classic._

“Doesn’t matter,” Webs tells him. “You smell like you need a shower anyway.”

When Webs knocks him to the ground a second time it’s because Wade lets him. He lets Webs kick his ass, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Call it foreplay. If he wanted to hurt Webs, he could. Granted, it would require lethal force and a ton of planning. 

Webs is _strong_. He stands over him, squats down, and hoists all two-hundred ten pounds of him plus guns and swords off the sidewalk like it’s nothing -- a bag of groceries. 

Wade takes a moment to respond. There’s a tooth loose in his mouth. He toggles it with his tongue. It dislodges. He swallows it. “You stink, too. My place or yours?”

The bridge of Wade’s nose crunches when Webs bashes his forehead into it. The funny thing is, Wade thinks, Webs would not be nearly so rough with him if he didn’t know his body would be better in an hour. Still, violence hurts.

"Stay down," Webs warns.

“Damn, Chicken Noodle. You’re fighting _dirty_ tonight,” Wade complains. Additionally, he takes this golden opportunity to cop a feel of Webs’ slim waist. Webs’ lithe form is a thing of heartbreaking beauty. There are lollipops in the waistband of his underoos. Wade takes one, and begins to unwrap it behind Web’s back. “Deadpool like. But--” 

“But what,” Webs’ eyes, narrowed to slits, flash the closest to murder his half-assed pacifism will allow, “you _skank_?”

Their faces are, like, two inches from each other. Wade pops the sucker in his mouth. His feelings on Webs in six words? ‘The lady doth protest too much.’ “But, why? What’s the matter? Havin’ a bad week? Money troubles? Tell Daddy what happened.”

“You are a scumbag,” Webs informs him, and gives him a little shake.

Wade groans, “I know, baby. Say it again.”

He slips a hundred dollar bill into the waistband of Webs’ underoos right next to what’s left of the lollipops.

It’s strange. The tremulous quality of Webs’ voice makes him sound livid and unshakably calm at the same time. “You are a _scumbag_.”

Webs must be clinging to every angelic thing he has not to give him a bone shattering beating. He lets him go. This is what makes Webs one of the good guys. It is also, in Wade’s opinion, what makes him utterly ineffective.

Webs wads up the Benjamin and tosses it back at him. “Do New York a favor, Wade. Go back to Vancouver.”

With a flick of his wrist, he’s off. So dramatic, that Webs!

“I’m from _Regina_!” Wade calls after him. Not even the right province? Americans have such poor grasps on geography. Honestly!

Webs, as he turns the corner, doesn’t seem to hear him. If he does, he doesn’t care. 

It doesn’t matter. That’s enough fun for tonight. Wade’s got a _plan_. He’s got some _crimes_ to commit. He limps off down the street to collect his giraffe. If he’s going to stalk someone as fast as Webs he’s going to need a ride, too. First stop: the Baxter Building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really feel like this chapter could have been stronger. But, I'm really trying to learn to work on deadlines instead of obsessing endlessly. I choose a different skill to improve evert time I write and for this story I've decided to stick to a schedule: second and fourth Sundays of the month. Yeah. Sorry / not sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> A PSA about characterization: You may have noticed yellow and white are absent from this fic. I have some complicated feelings about the boxes. For that reason, I'm aiming in the general direction of a Posehn / Kelly / Hawthorne Poolie rather than a Way Poolie. K?
> 
> Anyway, follow me on [tumblr](https://winplaceshow.tumblr.com/) for updates, and be sure to say hi in the comments! I'm a slut for comments.


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